


i'll never wear your broken crown

by astahfrith



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Amnesia, Anger, Existential Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, this new guardian is not about this bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27256969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astahfrith/pseuds/astahfrith
Summary: "Then do you understand now?" the Speaker says, sounding almost gentle. It makes them bristle. "Do you see why the forgetting of our past lives is a kindness?""Fuck you,"they snarl.--Pieces of the life of a Guardian that never wanted to be one.
Relationships: Nonbinary Guardian/Ghost
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	i'll never wear your broken crown

_“I chose them_ ,” they shout, the knowledge rising in their chest like a Sun. “I _chose_ them, and I chose to die for them, and your Gods-forsaken _Traveler_ had _no right to take that from me_!”

And in that moment, furious and heartbroken and _hating_ , the memory comes to them: a single fragment fighting its way up from the depths that blossoms into a full-on flashback.

Blood everywhere; theirs. Tears on their face; not theirs. And...touch. From more than one person, more than they can count in this moment, delirious from pain and blood loss. Hands on their chest, heavy, trying to staunch the wound that is bleeding them dry. Hands on their ankles, on their shoulders, pinning them down, keeping their convulsions from hurting anyone, mostly themselves. Hands wrapped around each of theirs, two different pairs, clutching bruisingly tight. A hand over their eyes, blessedly cool against their clammy, feverish skin, somehow infinitely more tender than had it been on their cheek. 

Words; someone else’s, thick with the tears that are falling on their face.

_I didn’t ask you for this! Why did you do it?_

They think it’s whoever’s hand is over their eyes. They want to rip it off. They want to see their face. They can’t remember it. Not any of them. 

Words; theirs, thick with blood. 

_Because you didn’t ask._

No one had ever asked it before. Only expected it. Only ordered it. 

Someone is screaming, far away. Someone is cursing a blue streak, a continuous litany that swings through about five diff _e_ rent languages they can identify. Someone is breathing, in the hitching, choked way of someone trying not to break into sobs. Someone is telling them not to move, not to speak; to keep breathing.

_You asshole. You fucking asshole._

Harsh words, but spoken with infinite grief and fury and _love_ that warms them from the inside out.

 _Love you too_ they say, on a wet and broken laugh. To all of them, all of these wonderful, precious people _they can’t remember_ , _why can’t they_ remember—

They don’t regret doing whatever it was that got them here, one foot in the grave and falling further every second. They saved them. From what, they don’t know, but they did, and that’s enough. 

They hold that knowledge close and dear as they sink down into the dark.

When the memory lets go, they find themselves flat on their back on the stone floor of the Speaker’s chambers, face awash with tears. It’s so reminiscent of the memory they just recalled that they shiver violently.

 _My death,_ they think, dazed, only half aware of the world around them. The Speaker is saying something. He sounds concerned. They pay him no mind, because now that it’s complete the memory is trying to _fade_. Something is dragging it back down into those dark and murky depths.

 _No,_ they think, furious, and grab hold of it with all the strength they possess. _No. Not again._

They _pull._ The memory resists, but this of all their losses is one they will not accept. They pull it to the forefront, gild it and anchor it with that conviction. Finally, it surrenders and settles into place, followed by bitter satisfaction.

The roaring in their ears fades away, replaced by their harsh breathing. They feel like they’ve run a marathon. They blink to clear the tears from their eyes, and then finally slowly sit up, only to clap a hand to their head as it throbs and the world spins around them. They grimace and close their eyes again, waiting it out. Thankfully the spinning goes away quickly, though the headache doesn’t. Well. You win some and you lose some. 

When they open their eyes again, movement in their peripheral vision has them turning their head.

The Speaker is knelt next to them, quiet. It’s impossible to see his expression, but his posture is...sad.

“What did you remember?” he asks, when he sees their eyes focus on him.

“...My death. The first one,” they say, seeing no reason to lie.

The Speaker tilts his head. “Then do you understand now?” he asks, sounding almost gentle. “Do you see why the forgetting of our past lives is a kindness?”

Anger surges like lightning, driving them to their feet. They see the Speaker lean back in surprise.

“ _Fuck you,”_ they snarl. For a moment they consider punching him, but then decide against it. Not worth the energy. Instead, they spit at his feet.

Then, before he can stay anything, they turn on their heel and storm out.

**Author's Note:**

> idk what to say this is just an OC concept that came to me at like midnight the other week. they don't have a name because they want the one they can't remember, and they refuse to give their Ghost a name either, even though it wants one from them. they're a beacon of spite (hiding a kind and selfless heart as their flashback implies).
> 
> a n y w a y don't expect regular or extensive updates on this I mostly just want to write short interactions with various characters.


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